They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona's hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing he might do, or say, could. Her grief would run its course, like a fever, and release her when it was spent. He would not shush her or tell her it was God's will and that her da was better off. That was rubbish and they both knew it. When something hurt as bad as this, you had to let it hurt. There were no shortcuts.

For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.

When you can write music that endures, bravo. Until then, keep quiet and study the work of those who can.

A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.

I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.